Eleven Hours to Daybreak
by pyrrhy
Summary: Gojyo has been cut adrift from himself. Clone!GojyoHakkai, based on events in Reload.


Takes place before the duplicates appear in tankabon 1 of _Reload_, with a focus on the Clone!Gojyo. Resurrected fic from '04, and will probably be a two-parter.

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The craving was there. Gojyo studied the slender white stick in his hand, twiddling it carelessly between thumb and forefinger. The lighter wasn't on him. The other man had it—surly, pretty blondie. Gojyo had mentally christened him Fuckwad, which served just as well in lieu of a proper name. The wind had picked up again, stirring the leaves around Gojyo's feet. They tumbled past him and across the yard, red as the hair that whipped over his face, catching on the sweat still drying on his skin. Gojyo grimaced, raking the loose strands aside. It was a damned nuisance. And then there was his cigarette, still waiting to be lit and enjoyed.

There was something right to it, the feel of the cancer stick, wedged casually between index and middle finger. He knew how he'd smoke it: by cupping his chin in his palm, angling the stick, and then that glorious inhale. Gojyo brought the cigarette, still unlit, to his lips and held it there for a moment. Yes. The action spoke of long-time habit, of ritual; it anchored him, gathering his drifting self and thrusting him back into the present.

A sensation of growing dissonance made Gojyo's skin itch.

Gojyo stared at the cigarette a while longer before stuffing it into his vest pocket. Just as well he didn't have a lighter. Lighting up meant that Gojyo would have to smoke it, but the smoke abraded lungs sensitive to the abuse of tar and ash.

Gojyo watched his shadow grow longer, fainter, a shade creeping across the cracked concrete slabs lining the yard. Weeds had sprouted from between the cracks, casting thin, feathery shadows of their own. The light was going. The sky was pale, tinted with fire at its lower levels and caught in that intermediate colour between grey and deep indigo above. Gojyo shifted in discomfort, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them. The hot dampness of exertion lingered at his armpits, the small of his back and the joints of his neck and groin. The rest of him felt faintly sticky and corpse-cold in contrast, goose bumps rising along his arms. The wind had subsided, but night had brought with it a chill that seeped into his bones, his head.

Absently, Gojyo thought, _I'm getting old._

_How old?_ something persisted.

Gojyo shivered. He didn't know.

There were better things to do than stand out here in the cold, freezing his balls off. Sense-memories impressed themselves upon Gojyo: lager, silky-wet down his throat, spreading through his veins with alcoholic heat; a body in his lap, soft, the curves would be, breasts and ass lush and firm; pillows, quilts, the intoxication of warmth and sleep. Oh, yes. Gojyo stifled a yawn, eyelids drooping shut. It had been a long day. He looked down, surprised at how quickly the light had faded. He could barely see his feet. His halberd was a darker shape beside the wall, quiescent without the guidance of his hands. Gojyo bent over, picking it up again; the halberd felt right as well, reassuring in its weight, its heft, the solid steel wedge and half-moon of its blades.

Gojyo stepped away from the wall and into the centre of the yard. He widened his stance, feet placed... like that. Yes. The halberd balanced perfectly in Gojyo's grip, held firm, but not too tightly. It worked better when Gojyo did not think too closely on it. Ingrained reflex (_not his_) took care of the rest. He had realised that in the first two minutes the first time he'd attempted the routine. Gojyo watched as his hands whipped the halberd up, wedge-shaped blade slicing towards an unseen opponent. His wrists twisted, rotating the blade. Shuffle back, four, five, six. Sweep, above, sweep, low, then follow up with a kick. The shaft twirled in Gojyo's fingers, humming as he built up velocity. Press with a finger, _here_, and the half-moon detached, hurtling across the yard and drawing a length of chain after it. Spin, his arms bringing the halberd above his head; this bit was always a little tricky, don't let the fingers slip – shit, but he was _thinking_ again.

Act, don't reason. Gojyo snorted at the thought, lips peeling back in a wide grin, his breath coming in uneven pants. Live in the moment. Think not on tomorrow. Fucking Zen philosophy schtick; this was what came of spending all his time with—with...

Gojyo's fingers slipped. The half-moon clattered earth-wards, interrupted in mid-flight. The halberd slipped from suddenly fumbling hands as Gojyo's control shattered, and fell heavily to the ground. The sound it made when it struck the concrete echoed hollowly across the empty yard.

"Hey ass-wipe!" A sharp pounding intruded upon Gojyo's senses. He blinked. Someone was hitting the window with a hand, hard enough to rattle the frames. Fuckwad, probably. "Keep it down!"

"Fuck off!" Gojyo flipped the unseen speaker off, not caring if the gesture went unnoticed.

It was a moonless night. Clouds scudded across the sky like blinds. There was a memory of other nights inside Gojyo's head, where the moon would shine through, full and bright and clear, the heavens so deep Gojyo had felt as though he was looking right into the heart of the universe. When had he seen this? Yesterday? What had he been doing then? A plethora of sensations flooded his mind: drinking, talking, smoking, fucking, laughing... Gojyo shook his head, distracted. The halberd was still lying on the ground. The only light in the yard came from the squat building beside him. It was so dark now Gojyo could barely see in front of him; no wonder he had bungled the move. He would practise it again tomorrow.

Slowly, Gojyo bent and gathered the extended chain. It dragged along the ground with the metallic scrape of links. He knew it could be retracted into the shaft of the halberd; that stood to reason, since it had come out of it. There was a lever somewhere, had to be some kind of switch he could trigger. The wooden grain of the shaft was smooth beneath Gojyo's hands. Muscle and sinew and body remembered what Gojyo's mind could not—but how was Gojyo supposed to not-think when he wanted to perform a conscious action? He rubbed an un-callused thumb against the shaft, ignoring the minute tremble of his fingers (_cold, it was the cold_), not expecting to find anything.

He didn't. The chain remained where it was.

The yard lights snapped on. Another shadow spilled across the yard. Gojyo whirled about guiltily, dropping the chain. A slim figure, clad in tunic, sash and trousers, stood silhouetted in the doorway.

_Green-eyes._ He had been the last of them, the fourth. He had wandered in around late afternoon, stood uncertainly in that same doorway, a faint smile gracing his face. The sun had gilded him with its sultry glow, bringing out the rich chestnut highlights in his hair. "Hello," he had said, dipping his head in a bow. Not too deep, certain of himself, but respectful. The smiling ones were the ones you had to watch the closest. This one made Gojyo uneasy, with his too-fine features, his careful manners, the strange monocle that hid his eye. This one was the last person Gojyo wanted to see him like this, shaking like a fool in the cold, unable to manage his own weapon.

"What do you want?" The query was as belligerent as Gojyo could make it, but Green-eyes only smiled, and started walking towards him.

He was perspiring again, Gojyo realised, flushed from the exercise and the stinging cold. Green-eyes stopped just close enough that Gojyo thought he could feel the heat rising off him. The light was behind them, hiding Green-eyes's expression from his view. They were nearly of a height; the top of the other's head reached Gojyo's eye-level. His dark hair smelled of soap, some herbal stuff that had been the only thing they could find.

"It's late. Come on in." Green-eyes's voice was low, soft-sounding in the night that wrapped around them. There was a suggestion of teeth in the dark, warm space they created between their bodies. "I've cooked us dinner."

Dinner sounded good. As though sensing Gojyo's acquiescence, Green-eyes had already turned and was walking back into the building. Dinner sounded very good, in fact. Gojyo's stomach growled in agreement. Deciding to accept the invitation, Gojyo fell into step behind the dark-haired man.

Dinner, a bath, then bed. Pity about the lack of companionship; work-outs always made him horny, and there was nothing a good fuck couldn't cure, not even this lingering tension that coiled tightly in his gut like prescience. Foreboding. Gojyo could almost taste it—something to the air, a sense of nerves drawn too tight, of eyes watching his back—for all that he seemed incapable of understanding anything else. He had been cut adrift from himself, somehow. The phantoms of memory faded in and out, fragments of impressions half-remembered. (_What day was it? What was he doing here?_) His thoughts did not seem to be his own, wavering like illusions and melting away when he ventured too close. A thick reluctance fettered Gojyo at the thought of leaving, clutching with oily fingers that stroked, soothed.

Tomorrow he would leave this place, it promised.

Tomorrow, he would be free.

The smell of wood-smoke and golden warmth enveloped Gojyo as he stepped in through the door. Gojyo shut it tightly behind him, feeling the wind batter restlessly against it. His boots trailed dirt over a floor dusty from disuse. The room was bare, aside from a table in the corner and a few benches lining the walls, its walls tiled with a particularly virulent shade of olive. Though wired for electricity, there was no stove, nor were there radiators. They had lights, at least, and there was a fire at the hearth, crackling as it burned, its heat pervading the entire room. Fuckwad was there, glancing up sourly from his newspaper, the half-smoked end of a cigarette lying listlessly beside his arm on the table. Gojyo's mouth quirked in amusement. Hah. So Fuckwad hadn't been able to stomach the taste of the smoke, either. The blond man ignored him, eyes fixed steadfastly on his paper.

The table was set for four, soup and rice and denuded fish skeleton laid neatly out in the middle. Gojyo felt his gaze narrow, homing in on the messy brown head bent industriously over its bowl.

"Boy!" he roared, pushing past Green-eyes and into the room. The brat peered up immediately, golden eyes wide with apprehension and apparent innocence (feigned! insisted Gojyo in his outrage). With his slight stature and his shock of thick, brown hair, the boy reminded Gojyo of some small, furry animal. A monkey, maybe. Dimly, Gojyo heard Green-eyes chuckle from behind him.

"What? What?" The boy hunched over his bowl like a broody hen, chopsticks clenched in a grimy fist, ready to defend his seat to the death. "You were out there for ages! How was I to know... and anyway, you should have come in earlier if you wanted to eat!"

"At the rate you eat?" Gojyo goaded in caustic tones. He marched up to the table, making a grab for his bowl of rice. And it felt good to shout, to squabble over this little thing. Distracted by the moment, Gojyo could feel the formless anxiety nipping at the corners of his awareness subside. "You stupid monkey, we ought to cook you! How long are we gonna last out here with you sucking up our stock like... like some... some... damn..."

He abruptly felt himself run out of steam.

_How long?_ The words seemed to shout themselves in the silence that followed. Even Fuckwad looked perturbed, staring fiercely at his paper, thin lips tight with distress. Green-eyes had turned pale, his mouth half-open on an unfinished word. It was then that Gojyo realised how meticulously they had avoided talking about it, pretending not to see. Time was meaningless without a memory of last week, last month, last year. The fire continued to burn quietly, sending shadows skittering about the room. It was going to be cold tonight, with no one to keep it going.

"I'm going to bed," Gojyo announced abruptly. He stalked off, stomach still growling.

There were four bedrooms; it was a pleasing symmetry, as though the house had been intended for them. Gojyo selected a door at random and slammed in, stumbling through the unlit room. He wanted to be gone, away from this place, the people he was inexplicably bound to. Shucking off his boots, Gojyo peeled off his headband and vest before falling onto the bed, feeling his skin itch. He needed a shower. Gojyo tossed around for another hour or so before it occurred to him that he wasn't falling asleep. His blanket had been pushed below his waist, tangling uncomfortably about his feet. He sat up, resisting the unreasoning urge to scream. The walls of the room seemed too close, the ceiling too low.

Gojyo escaped out through the window.


End file.
